


Witchers Might Not Have Nightmares, But Geralt of Rivia Does

by NerdyBirdy6602



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Nightmares, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:16:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26955715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NerdyBirdy6602/pseuds/NerdyBirdy6602
Summary: Jaskier and Geralt reunite after a long winter, and everything seems to be going better than ever. Geralt looks happy for the first time in a long while, and Jaskier basks in the company of his partner. Except, there seems to be one little problem:Geralt refuses to sleep at night.When the Witcher has to gear up for a contract that requires all his strength, Jaskier forces him to take some time to relax. It doesn't end the way he'd expected.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 16
Kudos: 138





	Witchers Might Not Have Nightmares, But Geralt of Rivia Does

Jaskier and Geralt had recently rejoined for the spring. At first, the Witcher had appeared happy to see him in his own way. He wore the slightest of smirks. His warm hands brushed against the bard’s shoulder for longer than necessary, leaving the bard to shiver pleasantly at his touch. Everything felt more intimate than it had years ago, when Geralt acted as though the bard was barely tolerated. Perhaps both men were growing to acknowledge their emotions.

That was, at least, how it was during their daytime travels.

During the night, however, Jaskier noticed that the White Wolf wouldn’t sleep. Instead, as the bard settled into his bed roll under the twinkling stars, Geralt knelt in the grass in his traditional meditational stance. Jaskier offered, quietly, if his Witcher would like to share the sleeping arrangements. However, either Geralt was too deep in meditation to hear or simply refused to answer. Before long, the bard rolled onto his side and fell into a restful slumber.

This had gone on for several days, until they finally arrived in a sleepy little town with a severe striga problem. The matter only worsened when Geralt discovered that the striga was just a village girl cursed for wandering into the wrong woods. Her family begged the Witcher to try and save her. Of course, Geralt gave his word that he would try.

He gave himself a few days to prepare in the town’s rundown inn, gathering supplies for his potions and sharpening his swords. Each evening, after spending the day working tirelessly, Geralt had meditated instead of slept. Now, Jaskier became concerned. A few meditation sessions were entirely normal, but Geralt never consecutively used them to replace sleep.

Knowing Geralt’s confrontation with the striga would happen that evening, Jaskier casually stopped him from walking out the door. At the man’s exhausted but bewildered expression, he gently said, “I think you need a break.”

Geralt huffed, decidedly trying to push his ridiculous bard out of the way. However, the bard remained steadfast and pushed back. Irritated, he muttered, “Bard, what the fuck—”

“Last time you became an insomniac, it was because you were thinking of what happened in Cintra,” Jaskier pointed out firmly. “My point is that you haven’t slept in a week and you’re distressed. Geralt, talk to me. At the very least, lay down a moment and relax. A striga is no small feat, even for the White Wolf.”

Geralt glared back at Jaskier. Still, he didn’t leave like the bard expected. Instead, he sat on the edge of the bed and jokingly shot back, “There’s no djinn this time. It’ll work itself out.”

Jaskier didn’t dignify that with a laugh, and instead sat at his side. Bolstered by the Witcher’s compliance, he leaned so that his head rested on his shoulder. He wasn’t shoved away, but he did feel Geralt tense at the contact before releasing it with a sigh. Geralt’s fingertips traced a nonsensical pattern along Jaskier’s thigh, making him smile with ease. Neither could remember a time they had ever been so intimate and close with no other pretense. Often they huddled together for warmth, or Jaskier would remove his armor and assist with the bath, but this touch wasn’t essential by any means.

“Do you want to tell me what’s been troubling you,” the bard whispered, catching a glimpse of Geralt’s sorrowful expression. “Or you could lay down, and I’ll help you relax.”

Geralt silently slipped out of Jaskier’s touch, and for a moment the bard feared that the moment had passed. The Witcher would tuck his emotions away as he always had and keep Jaskier wondering. However, it was simply that Geralt had decided to lay back on the bed and close his tired eyes. Jaskier grinned at the blatant display of trust and reached for his pack at the end of the bed. After a few moments of fumbling for the right vial, he finally uncorked it.

It took a moment for the smell to reach his nostrils but once it did, Geralt recognized it immediately. Of course, it was lavender oil, something Jaskier wore no matter where he was going. It reminded him of Jaskier skating across a ballroom floor, lute in hand as he charmed every nobleman and lady in whatever royal court he visited. The Witcher always pretended he was there to protect against jilted lovers and cuckolds, which was very true, but he also didn’t mind seeing Jaskier in his element.

“You’re smiling,” Jaskier pointed out softly, setting the open vial on the nightstand beside Geralt’s head. “But it’s real. I mean, I thought that smile was real when you first saw me a few days ago, but my memory must not have served me well. This is Geralt of Rivia truly happy.”

Geralt gave his signature grunt, but the smile didn’t fade. In fact, he didn’t even open his eyes. He listened to the room instead. The Witcher heard the thump of Jaskier’s pack hitting the wooden floor and the bedframe’s noisy creak as the bard settled to lay beside Geralt. Instinctively, the Witcher wrapped his arm around his partner, tucking his body closer. He had to admit that he hadn’t felt this relaxed since the last time he’d seen Jaskier the previous autumn.

Jaskier didn’t hesitate before he began to massage the Witcher’s scalp. It was an obviously welcome action, given the way he hummed pleasurably a few seconds later. The bard felt an immense sense of pride for coming so far with Geralt. Years ago, even months ago, Geralt wouldn’t have listened when told to relax. It simply wasn’t in his nature. Over time, the Witcher had begun to warm up to the idea of self care. While they still had a long way to go, this was a good start to a long, healthy relationship.

“If you decide to drift,” Jaskier purred, “I’ll be here when you wake.”

Geralt wanted to argue that he had no intentions of sleeping, only resting his eyes, but he lacked the energy. Between the gentle thrum of Jaskier’s heart and the warmth of his body, the Witcher drifted off to sleep in a matter of minutes. Later, Geralt would reprimand himself for letting his guard fall, but for now he revelled in the feeling of blissful sleep.

Jaskier recognized the moment his partner slipped into dreamland by the way his face relaxed. Sleep took years off of the Witcher’s appearance, and it looked as though he hadn’t been on the Path all these years. The bard found reassurance in the fact that the youthful expression existed, since it meant that Geralt hadn’t always been a jaded Witcher. Jaskier imagined him growing up without Kaer Morhen and the Trials. He wondered briefly what his Witcher would have done all those years ago if he grew up without the heartbreak.

He shook the thought from his head. Geralt was the man he was, and Jaskier would always be grateful for it. While he wished that the man he loved didn’t have to suffer for it, all these events made him who he was. These transformations made it possible for the two to meet at all. The bard thought fondly that their meeting must have been fate, and then just barely suppressed a chuckle. Geralt, the man who constantly tried to conquer destiny, would think that’s absolutely absurd.

And so, Jaskier sat at his side for hours, mentally jotting down a few decent ideas to be composed at a later time. Many of them were about Geralt, but the rest were just abstract stories that came to mind. He was at peace for a time, until he felt the Witcher’s grip tighten around him. The bard lifted his head to find Geralt’s face frozen in fear. It was an unusual expression for the man who often kept a brave face. He couldn’t remember a time when Geralt was so terrified.

“Lambert,” Geralt muttered, brow furrowed. “You can’t. They’ll… They’ll tear you apart.”

Jaskier shifted as much as he could in the strong grip and placed his hand on Geralt’s chest. He gave a hard shove, but the action was lost on him. Jaskier wanted to wake his love from whatever terrifying visions he was having, but he’d never had to wake Geralt before. The man was always early to rise, and if he’d ever had nightmares, Jaskier had been too dead to the world to ever hear them.

“Geralt,” he called, voice shaking. “It’s a nightmare. Come back to me, dear heart.”

“Eskel,” the Witcher cried out, hot tears falling from his closed eyes. “Wake up. Wake up! I…”

Jaskier had heard these names mentioned in passing whenever Geralt would give some hint of his winter months. These were people from Kaer Morhen, particularly his brothers. They’d survived the Trials together and, from the way he spoke, it seemed he was watching them at war. Again he tried to shake him from his nightmarish visions.

“You’re not there,” Jaskier said, giving him another hard shove. “Wake up, it’s Jaskier.”

“Jaskier…”

For one heartwarming moment, the bard thinks he’s broken through to the man. Alas, it didn’t last long when he noticed Geralt’s eyes remained closed and the broken sobbing grew louder. The Witcher was saying words, but they were unintelligible through the tears. His heart ached at the thought of Geralt walking through his own personal hell, and finally gave him a hard punch in the shoulder.

As Jaskier had hoped, the Witcher jolted awake. A shout slowly died in his throat, leaving him shaking and glancing about the room. His golden eyes fell upon Jaskier and, rather than relief, he was filled with unadulterated horror. This had been what he was trying to avoid. Jaskier didn’t need a hulking mutant crying on his shoulders. It was a waste of both of their time.

“Forgive me,” He wheezed, chest still heaving as he tried to stand and walk it off. “I had no intention of…”

Jaskier rose, holding Geralt in place by the shoulders to keep him from rising to his feet. To the Witcher’s mild surprise, Jaskier wasn’t appalled by his emotional display. Instead, as they stared face to face, the bard only looked worried. 

“Geralt, I’m here,” he purred, gently caressing the man’s cheek. “I’m not going anywhere because you’re upset. If anything, I would like to stay and make sure you’re well. What can I do to help, dear heart?”

“It’s nothing,” the Witcher muttered, looking away to avoid the embarrassed flush that was spreading across his cheeks. “A Witcher shouldn’t act like this. A Witcher doesn’t have nightmares.”

Jaskier smiled weakly at that statement. “Geralt of Rivia does, though. Doesn’t make you less of a man, or less of a Witcher, now does it? Now, you did an awful lot of talking in your sleep so I can only imagine how much it hurt.”

Geralt stared at his partner now, eyes shining with unbidden tears. He felt weak and broken, hands quivering as he held Jaskier’s hand. He didn’t want to admit how terrified he was, even if it was already evident. It wasn’t his style to spill his heart. That was Jaskier’s job. The Witcher supposed, however, that times had changed. These days, Geralt had someone he could trust in his travels.

“The School of the Crane,” he whispered. “Vesemir got wind that they were viciously attacked. Overwhelmed. They were one of the last schools still training Witchers and they’re all…”

Geralt couldn’t even finish the thought. Instead, he found himself thinking back on the nightmare he had, which was his brothers falling one by one at the hand of an angry mob. Jaskier understood and eased himself into Geralt’s lap without a word. Wrapping his arms around Geralt’s neck, he placed a gentle kiss to his nose. He watched the man ease slightly, but not nearly as much as he would have liked.

“And you’re worried more will come for Kaer Morhen and your brothers,” Jaskier finished for him. “Melitele’s tits, that is terrifying.”

Geralt nodded, leaning into Jaskier’s warm hold. He tried to forget the nightmare, and yet it still clung to him. The bard’s presence was greatly appreciated, but he couldn’t help but be anxious. Then, quietly he whined, “Kaer Morhen wouldn’t survive another attack.”

“Another? There was a first attack?”

The Witcher groaned, nodding as he realized there was quite a bit of explaining to do. He elaborated, “Yes, but I wasn’t present for it. Mages spread around a pamphlet about how vile and dangerous the Wolves were. A mob from the valley arose and killed anyone who was there. That meant most of our instructors, some boys still going through the trials, and any loose Witchers not on a hunt. Kaer Morhen has a painful past, Jask. Vesemir is the last Witcher to truly live there. Lambert, Eskel, and I are the only remaining students.”

Jaskier frowned in confusion. “Couldn’t Vesemir train more boys? I mean, you make the Trials sound like a hellish nightmare, but if boys were willing to continue the legacy…”

Geralt shook his head. “No. Vesemir was only the combat instructor. The coordinators of the Trials are dead and gone. No one else knows the Trials of the Wolves except the very mages that tried to end us. We’re a dying breed, Jaskier. The world doesn’t need us as much any more. The humans have gotten smarter. They’d rather strike a deal with the local troll than contract a Witcher. Better yet, they’d rather try killing the things themselves and quite frankly, they often can.”

Jaskier sighed, pondering this new wealth of knowledge. The Witcher’s fears were obviously valid in every sense. It wasn’t often that the man was treated with kindness, or even basic human decency. People threw rocks and spat in their direction in the worst of towns. In the nicer ones, it was subtle glares and jeering words. Fearing an angry mob wasn’t such a stretch of the imagination.

“That doesn’t explain why you called out to me in your dream,” Jaskier said with a raised brow. “Not to try and analyze your nightmares, but why would I be with your brothers?”

Geralt shrugged and looked away, a faint flush coming to his cheeks. He sighed and mumbled, “Do nightmares have to make sense? I just know how powerless it felt to watch. Lambert burned alive, Eskel got a dagger to the chest and you… Jaskier you had an arrow through your throat. There’s no amount of Witcher sense or skill that I could use to protect you or the others.”

Jaskier gasped, holding Geralt’s face in his hands. The absolute, unending sorrow and helplessness in his golden eyes nearly made the bard weep. The Witcher was hardly ever so vulnerable,and here he was wearing his heart on his sleeve just for the bard. The terror upon awakening suddenly made much more sense now.

“I can defend myself, dear heart,” he reminded. “You don’t have to worry about me as much. I may not be invincible, but I’m not porcelain. I’m great with a dagger and quite quick to dodge.”

Geralt shook his head, leaning forward until they were sharing the same air and bumping noses. He studied his bard here, watching the genuine compassion flit across his face. The reassurance and confidence were there, but the Witcher knew better. He knew that everyone he’d ever known, excluding Yennefer and her immortality, would eventually die. Geralt feared for Jaskier the most since he was only a human bard. Now and again, he would notice a new wrinkle on his skin, or a grey hair that hadn’t been there before. All of these only proved that even if this life on the road didn’t kill him, Jaskier would still die long before Geralt.

“I know you can,” Geralt admitted. “But to lose my travelling partner would still create a void I could never hope to fill. Witchers aren’t supposed to bring guests to the Path for this reason exactly: There will come a day when you cannot travel. Your years will catch up with you and eventually I will be alone again. That is the way the world works, Jask. It’s why we’re taught to travel alone. You and I both know that you won’t live forever.”

Jaskier placed a warm kiss upon his lips, hoping to reassure his partner. Geralt supported himself against the wall with one hand while reaching out to pull the bard closer. They now rested chest to chest with Jaskier languidly pressing his lips to exposed skin. For a moment, Geralt forgot about his prior anxieties and hummed contentedly.

The bard slipped away, twirling a lock of silver hair in his fingers. Gently, he whispered, “Maybe I won’t live forever. Maybe I’ll be nothing but dirt and ash in a few years' time, with nothing but my ballads to tell my story and keep my legacy.”

“Jaskier…”

“But have me now,” he interrupted, pressing a hand to his cheek and forcing Geralt to look at him. “Every day with you is a blessed adventure. Every morning I praise the Goddess above that I am the one you chose to travel with. Have me now, Geralt of Rivia. I promise to stay with you until I physically cannot any longer and cherish you all the while. Do the same for me, instead of mourning a death to come.”

The Witcher grinned for the second time that day, something Jaskier prided himself on. Geralt’s happiness was his greatest prize. With someone this brave and sweet, how anyone could decide to push him away was a mystery. Sure, the Witcher could be a major pain in the ass on some days, but that didn’t outweigh his best moments. It certainly didn’t make him a man to vilify.

“I do cherish you,” Geralt whispered, heart pounding against his rib cage as he confessed the words he’d longed to say for years. “I have for some time. You have my apologies if I’m shit at showing it. I know I am, but there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you. Do you understand?”

“I know,” Jaskier answered, his cornflower blue eyes shining with joyful tears that threatened to spill. “And I love you too. Surprisingly, there aren’t enough words to convey the depth of my affections for you, Geralt.”

Geralt snickered at that. Jaskier, the man infamous for waxing poetic day after day, had run out of words to say for him, a measly Witcher. His bard gave him a glare, but that only made him laugh harder. Geralt’s cheeks hurt from smiling, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

“Ah yes, laugh it up! I’m only trying to spill my heart,” Jaskier teased, giving the man before him a shove. “Congratulations on making me, Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, Jaskier the Master Bard, speechless. Are you proud of yourself?”

“Extremely,” the Witcher countered snarkily, pulling him back into a tender kiss. He had a striga to battle in a few mere hours, but that was a problem for future Geralt. Present Geralt wanted nothing more to appreciate this rare moment of both vulnerability and safety.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey gang, thanks for reading! As always, I take kudos, comments, and constructive criticism. Also, hit me up at my tumblr here to chat, give feedback, or make requests! Have a lovely day, folks!


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